the Letters
by OxOx-Megz-OxOx
Summary: "I have written you twelve letters, - one for each month - in the hope that this will help ease my passing. I'm not so vain to think that you will be a complete wreck without me, but I'm not so stupid to believe you won't mourn me either. All I ask, is that you read these letters on the exact dates they were intended for. This is the one, last thing I ask of you. - SH" - Johnlock
1. Prologue

**the Letters**

**Summary: "I have written you twelve letters, - one for each month - in the hope that this will help ease my passing. I'm not so vain to think that you will be a complete wreck without me, but I'm not so stupid to believe you won't mourn me either. All I ask, is that you read these letters on the exact dates they were intended for. This is the one, last thing I ask of you. - SH"**

**Pairing: Johnlock (John Watson x Sherlock Holmes)**

**Rating: T, just in case**

* * *

**Hey guys!**

**So I've had this idea for a while, and I finally decided it was time to write it. I've had to discontinue a lot of stories lately, all for different reasons, but I think now I've come up with some that I can continue with. I think I can almost definitely finish this, because my plan at the moment is for it only to be about 13-14 chapters long.**

**Anyway, I hope you enjoy it, and please review!**

**Megan**

**oxox**

**tumblr: personyourparentswarnedyouabout (It's an Ear-hat, John!)  
twitter: OxOxMeganOxOx  
YouTube: sherlockian13 (MyNamesNotDorris)**

* * *

Sherlock bit his lip, and shook his head frantically, as he crumpled up another piece of paper. He ruffled his hair, and put his head in his hands, sighing with frustration. He'd been at this for hours, and it was now five o'clock in the morning. John had been gone for hours, and he was quickly running out of time. But this suddenly seemed more important. It didn't matter if his plan went wrong, or back-fired . . . he just had to get this done first. Because for whatever reason, it _mattered._

The only problem was, he just couldn't find the words. No matter how hard he tried, nothing seemed _right. _He knew every word in the English language, and could recite almost all of their definitions from memory. He could tell you the hidden meaning behind anything anybody said, and what it meant when they wrote something a certain way. However, when it came to _this . . . _all of that suddenly just seemed insignificant.

He kicked the table-leg in anger, picking up the crumpled piece of paper, and throwing it across the room in anger. It landed in the pile, with the rest of them. His crumpled pile of failed words.

Ignoring the sharp pain in his foot, he pulled another piece of paper towards him, and began scribbling once more. He no longer cared what time it was, or how long he had left. All he cared about, was making sure that it was right. It just had to be right. As suddenly, writing this felt more important than anything he'd ever done in his life.

And it was hard. _God,_ was it hard.

He'd tried to remain distant, tried to stay strong. Not just for him, but for John. He didn't want to make it any harder than it already would be for him. He didn't want to cause him any more pain. Then, everyone had their breaking point. Even the great Sherlock Holmes, it would seem. Because here he was, all alone in the lab, surrounded by crumpled pieces of paper, sobbing.

The sobs shook his body with such great force, that he feared he might break. But he carried on writing, because he _had _to finish this. Because it _mattered. _A few years ago, this would have been easy. He could've disappeared off of the face of the earth, and not a single person would have noticed. He could have done that, and it would have been easy. Because he wouldn't have had anyone to leave behind.

But now he had John. John, who'd stuck with him from the beginning. Who'd put up with his early-morning violin playing, shooting holes in the walls, even coming home in the middle of the night, covered in blood. He'd never once asked any questions, and he'd never once yelled at him. Well, at least not properly. John had trusted him, no matter what. And he was about to destroy all of that in just a few, short hours.

It was funny, how long it took to build something up, and how quickly it could be knocked right back down again.

As he reached the end of the page, he signed his name carefully and slowly. He folded the page neatly, and slid it into the last envelope. He wrote John's name across the front, and scribbled a date in the corner. One year from now. A whole year until he was going to see him again. The thought itself was unbearable.

He added the envelope to the pile, leaving them on the table. Molly knew what to do with them next.

Taking one last look around the lab, the very lab where him and John had first met, he sighed. What he was about to do would be one of the hardest things he'd ever done. He'd never minded lying before. But lying to John was different. Especially, about something like this. He didn't want to do it. He wanted it all to stop, and to just go back to before he'd messed it all up.

Even though he knew this had been Moriarty's plan all along, he wondered if . . . if things would have been different, if he'd figured it out sooner. If he'd found a way to stop him back in that swimming pool, maybe they wouldn't be in this position right now. He'd been too smart, too clever, to look for the obvious. And Moriarty's plan was so _painstakingly _obvious . . . that he'd missed it completely. Yes, it was him and his tremendous ego that had gotten him into this situation.

He wiped his eyes with the back of his hands, and pinched the bridge of his nose. He was shaking now, and he didn't even try to stop himself from letting out a small, choked sob. He'd never really cared much for emotions, he simply didn't have the time. And yet here he was, sobbing, alone, at five o'clock in the morning. And he felt nothing but shame.

He was _ashamed _of himself, for letting his emotions get the better of him. He was ashamed of himself, for not figuring this all out before. He was ashamed of himself, for letting John down.

John.

That was always what everything seemed to come back to. John. And he supposed, in a way, it all made sense now. Because really, it'd always been about John, right from the start. He couldn't believe he'd never thought of it before, but now it was too late. He'd just have to hope that he was doing the right thing. Because now, he finally knew what Moriarty had been talking about.

_"I will burn . . . the _heart _out of you."_

_"I've been reliably informed that I don't have one."_

_"We both know that's not _quite _true."_

* * *

Standing behind a cluster of trees, Sherlock watched as John made his way over to the grave. _His _grave. _Sherlock's _grave. This was the fifth time he'd visited in a week, and Sherlock had been there every time. He knew he had other things to do, knew that there were more _important _things. But . . . this was John. It didn't matter that he was risking being seen, risking the whole plan going wrong. He just had to know that John was alright.

He wasn't alright, of course. Sherlock wasn't stupid. As John walked through the graveyard, his hands were shaking. His limp was back as well. It had returned a few days after Sherlock's fall. He was using the stick to get around again, and it broke Sherlock's heart every time. He just hoped that one day, John would be able to forgive him.

John stopped in front of Sherlock's grave, sitting down on the grass. He placed his stick at his side, and traced over the name that he'd spoken so many times.

"So . . . it's been a week already. Christ . . ." John whispered, as his fingers fell back into his lap. He began to twiddle them, not daring to look up at the grave again. It just made it more real whenever he did. "You know . . . I used to wonder . . . what my life would be like with-without you . . . sometimes, I thought it might be better. Just . . . just for a second, I thought . . . it might be nice, you know? To have a normal life . . . . well, I was wrong. _God, _was I wrong . . .

Life before I met you, it was . . . it was hell. Just getting up in the morning was . . . well, it was hard. Every day was the same, and . . . I was so close to giving up. I thought _that _was hard, Sherlock, but . . . now . . . now that you're . . . not here . . . I don't think I've ever felt so lost. I don't know what I'm going anymore, a-and . . . I miss you.

I think about you all the time, and . . . do you know what the worst part is? I'm scared that I won't _remember _you. I'm scared that . . . in five months' time, or even . . . a year from now, I won't remember. I'm scared that . . . that I won't even remember the little things. Because somehow, they seem like the most important. Like . . . the way you turned up the collar of your coat . . . or the way you'd yell at the TV when we were watching Jeremy Kyle. Even the colour that your eyes were under florescent lights . . . I just . . . I don't ever want to forget _you. _And I'm scared that one day . . . I might."

He rubbed his tired eyes, and sighed. When it'd first happened, he'd wondered if it would have been better if he'd never met Sherlock at all. Was it not better to live his normal, boring life without ever knowing what he was missing out on, than to have to live without the one thing that had made his life better? But after thinking about it for a while, he'd realized that no, it wasn't.

Reaching out his hand to touch the gravestone again, he ran his hand over the cool marble. He looked at the carefully engraved lettering, and shook his head.

"Sherlock Holmes. That's all. No epitaph, or small quote. Not even a date! . . . I can't quite decide whether that's better or worse. Because, who could ever think of a word to describe you? It seems wrong to even try, because . . . because no words could ever really do you justice. You were just . . . well, you were brilliant. But even that doesn't seem enough now.

And as far as the dates go, well . . . a life like yours was much more significant than that. Much more significant than just a line between two dates. Because that's all we're worth in the end. Nobody's remembered, nobody _really _makes a difference. But you _did. _And even when everybody else forgets about you, when everybody else moves on . . . I'll still remember. Because you were so much more than just a line.

I mean . . . that's your whole life. All those things you did . . . all those people you helped . . . and in the end, it all means nothing. No, that wouldn't have been right. But at the same time . . . I can't help but feel like it should say _something, _you know? One day, I'm not going to be around to remember you anymore, and I feel like . . . like people should _know _that you were here."

John breathed in deeply, and let out a large sigh. He picked up his stick, and used it to help him get up, leaning on it for support. He reached over, touching the top of the gravestone, as he'd done every time before. Sherlock felt it were some kind of goodbye. One that John just didn't seem to be able to get out.

"I don't know, maybe I'm just . . . over-thinking things," he muttered, looking out across the graveyard. "Can I just ask . . . just one more thing? Just _one _thing I'd still like to know . . . why? Why did you do it Sherlock?"

Sherlock shrunk back into the trees, as he watched John make his way back to the taxi that was waiting for him. Even though John hadn't spoken about, Sherlock could see how torn-up he was. And he wanted nothing more to just _go _to him, and to tell him everything. But he knew he couldn't. The word would eventually get back to Moriarty's assassins, and that was the last thing he wanted.

He wouldn't mind dying, honestly, he wouldn't. If the assassins got hold of him today, and shot him through the head, he wouldn't mind. Because he'd know that everyone else was going to be alright. But he knew that Moriarty had known that already. His plan had been designed to hurt Sherlock was much as possible. Because he'd known, that if there was one thing he cared about more than anything, it was John. He'd known it even before Sherlock had.

John was his one weakness.


	2. February 15th, 2012

**Hey guys!**

**I'm glad you liked the prologue, as I wasn't really sure if you were going to . . . thank you for all the favourites and follows as well, it means a lot! Thank you to hAde, as well, for your wonderful review. All I want to ask, is that some of you review as well? I just like to know what you guys think, and it lets me know if you're still interested.**

**Sorry for the late update, but I've had a lot going on at the moment. This chapter's been in development for quite a while, but hopefully it turned out okay.**

**Anyway, I hope you enjoy!**

**Megan**

**oxox**

**tumblr: personyourparentswarnedyouabout (It's an Ear-hat, John!)  
twitter: OxOxMeganOxOx  
YouTube: sherlockian13 (MyNamesNotDorris)**

* * *

15th February 2012

_Knock! Knock! Knock!_

John grumbled, as his eyes flickered open. Sunlight was streaming in through the dusty curtains, and the blankets were curled up around his ankles. He reached behind him to try and pull the curtains closed, but with no luck. He disliked light nowadays, all it did was reveal the cracks in his reality. The floor was covered in clothes, and packets filled with half-eaten food.

He looked around, dazed. How many days had he spent, completely unaware of how . . . disgusting he'd become? The bed sheets were stained with alcohol and food, and the bin in the corner of the room was overflowing with tissues, from the days he didn't think he'd ever be able to stop crying.

A month. He'd spent a _whole month _living like this. And it was vile. He'd sworn he'd never come back to this, this life of loneliness and isolation. He despised it. And yet, here he was once more. Right back where he started.

Except, it didn't feel like he was starting all over again. It felt more like he was ending. When he'd first come back to London, he'd always felt like he was on the edge of something. Like something was just about to happen, but he never knew what. He always assumed that he was just waiting for the day to come where he would finally end it all. Until Sherlock came along.

This time, that feeling was gone. Day after day he spent alone in his old, crumbling apartment. And at night, he dreamed of the life he used to have. Running around, solving crimes, and saving people from the evil villains. He never thought of himself as a hero, but in his dreams, he was damn near close. And what was he now? He was nothing. A shell of the man he used to be.

He looked around his small apartment. The paint was chipped, the heating didn't work. All he had was two rooms, the size of shoeboxes. Not that he needed that much space anyway, it was just him. But it was a direct contrast to the warmth, and comforting disorganization of 221b. 221b was his home, and this _decrepit _apartment just wasn't the same.

_Knock! Knock! Knock!_

Sighing, John untangled himself from the sheets. He pulled himself up, not bothering to make the bed. It wasn't like anyone was ever going to see the inside of this apartment, at least until he died. And it wouldn't matter if he'd made his bed of not by that point. This was the logic he now lived by, as he didn't see himself actually leaving the apartment any time soon. Except to go to Sherlock's . . . to see Sherlock.

He ran his hands through his hair, and rubbed his eyes with his palms. Then again, there wasn't much point in trying to make himself presentable either. By now, everyone already knew that he was a wreck. The press had written countless articles about him in the past month, and about how he was "coping". Except . . . he wasn't "coping", not even in the slightest. He was curious as to how a person was supposed to "cope" with a situation like this, though the answer was simple: they didn't.

Making his way to the door, he didn't let himself get his hopes up. It would probably just be another journalist asking for a quote, or a picture. That's all he'd been getting for the past month, so he didn't see why today would be any different. It seemed that reporters had no sense of compassion, or personal space. They hadn't given him a moment's peace ever since Sherlock . . . left.

When it had just been him and Sherlock, he didn't mind the reporters. All the attention, - including his own - was on Sherlock, so he didn't notice. Of course, there was the occasional article questioning whether their relationship was purely platonic, but John didn't mind, as he knew the truth. He always complained about it to Sherlock, but in the grand scheme of things, it didn't really matter.

But things were different now. John's hatred for the press had grown over the past few months. So much so, that he wouldn't even answer the door anymore if he knew they were outside. He stopped answering the phone to them, and stopped buying the papers. In Sherlock's final days, the press had turned on him. They'd chosen to believe Moriarty of all people, and made Sherlock out to be a fake, a fraud.

And now, it was almost as though they had the audacity to _judge _John for mourning his friend. He had to admit though, that was slightly better than what most of his "friends" were doing; pitying him for even believing Sherlock in the first place. Believing all the "lies" that he'd told him. At least now, John knew who his real friends had been.

He lifted a hand to the door, pulling it open slowly and peering out into the hallway. He kept the chain on, in case it was a reporter that tried to not-so-politely force their way in. They'd been doing that a lot lately. However, when he saw who it was, he took the chain off. As he pulled the door open, he saw himself face-to-face with the last person he'd expected to see.

"Molly?" he asked, eyes full of confusion and utter exhaustion.

A look of shock covered Molly's face. John hadn't had a chance to look in a mirror, but he did have a _rough _idea of what a state he was in. _Rough _being the operative word. Her mouth formed a small frown, and her eyebrows curved downwards. John knew that look, and he'd had enough of it recently. He sighed, leaning against the doorframe.

Possibly sensing John's annoyance, Molly shook herself. "I, um . . . I have something for you." she said, and John suddenly noticed that she was clutching something to her chest tightly. It looked like a stack of papers, and John wondered for a moment if it were some form or paperwork, following Sherlock's death. He despised paperwork. It seemed oddly formal, for such a personal situation. Luckily, Mycroft had taken care of most of it.

"What is it?"

"Sherlock, he um . . ." John's head shot up at the mention of Sherlock's name. It wasn't often people used it anymore. They mostly tried to avoid bringing him up altogether. So it was nice . . . to hear someone say it again. It made him seem more real. "That night, he . . . he came to my lab. He asked me to, uh . . . he told me that . . . that he was going to die."

John flinched, though he desperately tried to hide it. Molly bit her lip, looking down at her shoes.

"He said that . . . when it'd been a month, that . . . he wanted me to give you this." she whispered, unfolding her arms and showing John what she had been holding. It was a stack of letters, held together with an elastic band. John's name was scrawled across each one, in handwriting he would've recognized anywhere. "He said that . . . you had to open them in order. H-He said it was important."

Reaching forward with a shaking hand, John gently took the letters, holding them close to his chest. It felt like . . . like he had a piece of him again, even if it was just his words. His words had always been one of the things John liked most about him, and it was more than he could have hoped for these past few weeks.

"He also wanted me to tell you . . . one last thing," Molly muttered, her voice cracking. John could sense what was coming, but it didn't lessen the impact. "H-He wanted me to tell you that . . . he's sorry."

"I . . ." John didn't know what to say. It wouldn't be the first time Sherlock Holmes had left him speechless, but now it was for an entirely different reason. He'd said he was _sorry. _In his final moments, just hours before he was going to die . . . he'd been thinking about _him. _About _John. _The implications of that hit him like a ton of bricks, and all of a sudden, he didn't much feel like company. "Well, um . . . thank you . . ."

"Oh, I . . . you're welcome?" she offered awkwardly, as she shifted on her feet. The silence between them was deafening, as each of them waited for the other to say something. John was about to step in, when Molly lifted her head again. "I should . . . I should go."

He gave only a small smile in reply, holding the letters tighter. Giving him a nod in return, Molly made her way back down the hallway, adjusting her cardigan as she went. Letting his fingers run over the paper of the envelope, John was about to close the door when Molly turned on her heel.

"John?" she called out, and he poked his head back around the frame of the door. "I know I can't exactly speak for him, and . . . I-I didn't really know him that well I suppose, but . . . well . . . I don't think he'd like it . . . seeing you like this. I think, um . . . I think he would have wanted you to, uh . . . to not be alone, you know?"

There was silence.

What could he say to that? He'd not really given much thought as to what Sherlock would have wanted for him, but he knew it wouldn't have been this. How much Sherlock had actually cared about him, John didn't think he would ever know. But maybe that was best. However, he knew now that he'd cared enough to spend his last night . . . writing letters to _him._

"Anyway, what do I know?" she said, laughing awkwardly. "I . . . I hope things get better for you, John. I really do."

* * *

Sitting down at his desk, John placed the pile of letters in front of him. He carefully released them from the elastic bang, and watched as they spilled out across the table. Each and every one of them had his name written across the front of it, accompanied by a date in the corner, all written in the same, perfectly curved handwriting.

He wasn't sure if he was ready for this. All this time he'd been waiting for . . . _something. _Just anything, to make sense of the awful situation he'd been left in. What if this wasn't it? What if these letters weren't that thing he'd been waiting for? That something that would explain everything, and make it all okay again?

_Okay, _John thought bitterly, _nothing could ever make this okay. _It was true, of course. It wasn't okay. And he didn't think it ever would be again. Just a few months ago, he'd been happier than ever before. He'd been at Sherlock's said, and he'd felt like he was on top of the world. And for a moment . . . just for a _moment . . . _he'd let himself believe that everything was alright.

And then he'd jumped. And no words, no messages, no letters, could ever make that okay.

But just to be able to hold a piece of him, even just his words . . . might make him real again. The press had spent so long breaking down the person that was Sherlock Holmes, until all that remained were John's memories of him. And even John had begun to wonder if he really _had _been real, or just a figment of his imagination. These letters might bring him back, if only for a little while.

Taking a deep breath, he reached for the letter marked _February 15th, 2012. _He carefully turned the envelope over, and tried not to rip the paper as he opened it. He felt as though he were handling something precious, and he knew that he would read this letter several times over in the next month. Just so he could hear Sherlock's voice in his head again.

Pushing the other letters aside, he unfolded the thin paper.

_John,_

_By the time you read this letter, it will already have been a month since I . . . left. I know I should probably explain myself, and I know that's what you're expecting, but I can't. Not just yet anyway. I don't expect you to understand that, nor do I expect you to be okay with it. But just know that in time, you will. I can't tell you what happened or why it happened. But I can tell you one thing:_

_I'm sorry, John._

_I'm sorry that I let things get so out of control. I'm sorry I fell into Moriarty's trap. I'm sorry that I lied to you. I'm sorry for everything. Believe what you like, but I'm not actually completely devoid of human emotions - no matter how much I like to pretend otherwise. I didn't want to do what I did. I didn't want to . . . leave. But I didn't have any other choice._

_You've probably been thinking a lot in this past month. And maybe you've began to wonder if you ever meant anything to me. Maybe you wondered it before, I don't know. I suppose it wasn't really something that we ever talked about. And maybe you thought of yourself as my audience, simply there to keep my ego intact. Do you remember, when I said that to you? "That's the frailty of genius, John: it needs an audience." I didn't realize that those words applied to me until later. But you were never just an audience to me, John. You were my friend._

_And that's why I've decided to do this one, last thing for you._

_I have written you twelve letters, - one for each month - in the hope that this will help ease the first year after my passing. I'm not so vain to think that you will be a complete wreck without me . . . but I'm not so stupid to believe you won't mourn me either. All I ask; is that you read these letters on the _exact _dates they were intended for. It is imperative that you do it this way, as each letter was intended for a specific day, written on the front of the envelope._

_This is the only thing I ask of you._

_Yesterday was Valentine's Day, wasn't it? I don't usually remember such pointless information as that, but . . . I hope you had a good Valentine's Day, John. I hope you went out with your friends . . . Stamford, maybe? Lestrade? I hope you had a few drinks, and that you met a nice girl. I hope she was funny, and pretty, and intelligent. I hope you planned to meet her again, and . . . I hope she can help you through this._

_I know how unlikely that all is, but I find it's much better than the alternative. I don't want you be alone, John. Not like before. You don't deserve it . . . you don't deserve any of this._

_I only hope that one day, you'll find a way to forgive me._

_- SH_

_P.S. I noticed that I said I wrote you twelve letters, but in actual fact, it was thirteen. This one doesn't really count._

John wiped his eyes with the backs of his hands, and put the letter back down on the table. Of all the things he'd been expecting . . . that definitely wasn't one of them. Molly had been right, in the end. Sherlock didn't want him to be alone. And John supposed that, in a way, it made sense. Because John never would have wanted him to be alone either.

But Sherlock had been right too. Because John had never seen himself as more than Sherlock's audience, just someone who was there for convenience. He'd always thought of Sherlock as his best friend, but never the other way round. Sherlock just . . . he wasn't like that.

And to now know the truth was . . . well John didn't really know what to think of it all. In a way, he was glad. Glad that he'd meant as much to Sherlock as he had to him. But at the same time, it hurt. Because he could feel Sherlock breaking, just through the words in his letter. The uncertainty in his words, and the quickly-formed sentences. And it was painful.

He clutched the letter to his chest once more, and let his eyes cast over the rest of them. He piled them neatly in the corner of his desk, where they would remain until they were ready to be opened. After all, what kind of man would he be if he didn't obey his best friend's dying wish? There would be no honour in just ripping open the envelopes now and reading them all, no matter how much he wanted to.

Because these letters were his motivation. They would be his reason to get up every morning, to keep on living, because each day would bring him closer to opening another envelope. If anything was going to get him through this next year without Sherlock, it was these letters.


	3. March 15th, 2012

**Hey guys!**

**I'm _so _glad that this fic is getting a few more readers now. Thanks so much for your reviews, and please keep it up! It's good to know that you're liking it so far, and thank you again to hAde for an amazing review! Also thank you to all of you who have begun to follow this story, and to Lusaida, pruplup4 and Belen09 for your reviews. All of this is much appreciated.**

**Sorry for taking so long, but I've been quite busy at the moment. I have an exam next week, so there might be a slightly delay with the next chapter to. I promise I'll always update as soon as I can.**

**Anyway, shall we continue?**

**Megan**

**oxox**

**tumblr: personyourparentswarnedyouabout (It's an ear-hat, John!)  
twitter: NamesNotDorris  
YouTube: sherlockian13 (MyName'sNotDorris)**

* * *

March 15th 2012

Holding the envelope in his shaking hands, John sat down on his freshly made bed. His flat was now completely cleared of all mess, and he'd even taken out the bins that morning. He'd needed something to distract himself, so clearing up his flat had seemed like the best option. He'd wasted an entire day just throwing things out and folding things . . . just to get away from it.

But once all of that was done, it was still there: the pain.

Looking down at the envelope, he sighed. He had no idea what to expect, and so he was trying to prepare himself for every possibility. Because this letter had to potential to do so many things. It could easily help him build himself back up again, or it could break him into tiny little pieces once more. When he thought about it, it was ridiculous, they were just words. But they were _his _words. His thoughts, his opinions . . . . the only ones that still _mattered._

Taking a deep breath, he opened the envelope.

_John,_

_Two months now. Hopefully the reporters will have stopped hassling you by now, they probably have all they need. I don't think I ever told you this, but I have a very distinct hatred for reporters. They tend to twist words, and manipulate people into getting what they want. They intrude, and pry into people's private lives, with no regards to boundaries whatsoever._

_Extremely unprofessional, if you ask me._

_I wouldn't blame you though, if you sold your story to them. To be honest, you could probably do with the money. I can't imagine that your army pension is going to cover you for much longer, and I know how hard it is to get a job in London these days. Besides, it's not like a story from you is going to change anything. The public's opinion of me is quite clear._

_Have you gone back to the flat yet? I'm guessing you're not living there, at least for the moment anyhow. But just so you know, I've asked Mrs Hudson to keep the flat empty for you, just in case one day you feel like . . . maybe you could go back? Obviously, you don't have to. But the option will always be there if you need it. At least until you tell Mrs Hudson otherwise._

_Maybe you won't need to move back in, though. Maybe you did meet a nice girl at the bar, and maybe you're dating now? Maybe you're thinking that she might be the one (we all know how attached you get). And maybe, when the time comes, you'll ask her to marry you? Then you could move out of your crumbling apartment, and buy a house together?_

_After writing all that down, I realize how pathetic it is. And I don't imagine it'll do you much good either._

_Anyway, the point of this letter was that I want you to do something for me. Before I say anything else, I just want to point out that you don't have to. I don't want you to feel like I'm pressuring you to do anything, I just want you to . . . go back to the flat. I think it would be good for you, to be in a familiar environment again. It might help you cope a little better, and maybe help you let out some of those emotions you've no doubt been bottling up._

_But that's not the only reason I want you to go. There's something that I'd like you to have._

_I know I don't really come across as the sentimental type (a bit of an understatement), and I'm not . . . but there are still a few objects that I do value. They are quite important to me, and I think that you should have them._

_When I realized that I was going to die, I didn't really bother writing a will. I didn't see the point. I had nothing of value, and no one to give it to. Anything that came from the family belonged to Mycroft anyway, and everything else was just unimportant. Except for these few, precious objects that I have chosen to give to you._

_And who knows, maybe it will help? Not only to help you let out your emotions, but to give you some things to remember me by?_

_I started thinking, when I was writing the first letter . . . we never really shared many things did we? I mean, we lived together, and spent most of our time together but . . . we never really had anything to show for it. And even though I spent two full years by your side, I feel like we never really knew each other at all. I think we took our time a little bit for granted._

_But that wasn't your fault. It was mine._

_So I decided to take this opportunity to tell you that . . . everything of mine, is now yours. Anything you want, you can have. None of it really meant much to me, and there's no one else I would trust more with my possessions than you. So if you do go back to the flat, and happen to see anything that you might want as a . . . memento, then feel free to take it._

_What I most want you to have, however, is in my room. On the table in the far corner, you'll find a large, wooden box. And I'd like you to keep it._

_What's inside may not seem like much, but they're objects that really did mean a lot to me in my life, and I want you to have them. However, in the event that only make everything worse, you can just leave them at the flat. I don't mind, you don't have to keep them if you don't want to. Throw them away, it doesn't matter. But I just thought that you might like them._

_- SH_

John re-read the letter at least three times, before setting it down on the bed. He rested his head in his hands, and closed his tired eyes. The thought of returning to 221b had hardly occurred to him. It was something that he'd pushed to the back of his mind, and resolved to deal with it later. It didn't even bear thinking about. And yet now, here he was.

He couldn't not go back, he knew that. He wouldn't be able to sleep until he found out what it was that Sherlock had left for him. Whatever these objects were that Sherlock wanted him to have, they were important. At least they had been to him. It was clear in the letter that Sherlock had been trying not to make it sound like a big deal, but John knew him better than that - or at least, he'd thought he did.

But he wasn't ready. It had only been two months since he'd lost Sherlock, and he still hadn't forgiven himself for it. He kept thinking that maybe if he'd just been a _few _minutes earlier . . . he'd have been able to stop him. Whether he could have or not, John didn't know. But it was better to think that there was nothing he could have done, than to think of any other possibilities.

Sighing, he ran his hands through his hair. He had to go back, he _had _to. It was stupid to think that he'd even had a choice in the first place. When it came to Sherlock, there were no choices to be made.

* * *

"Are you sure you don't want me to come up with you?" Mrs Hudson asked, her voice laced with concern. John shook his head, and she placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. His whole body was shaking, and he glanced upstairs, his heart pounding in his ears. He hadn't imagined that he'd be quite this nervous, and he'd been fine on the cab ride over. But now that he was here . . . standing where they'd once stood . . .

Even in the hallway . . . he was everywhere. _Sherlock. _He was standing in the door-well to Mrs Hudson's flat, sitting at the end of the staircase, leaning against the wall as he laughed. Everything reminded John of _him._

Mrs Hudson sighed, giving him a small smile. She obviously knew how difficult this was for him, and John could tell what she was thinking. She had always assumed that him and Sherlock were together, not that it mattered now. Looking back, John could see how people had made that assumption so easily. And maybe they'd been right, who knows?

John just knew that . . . he knew that he'd been closer to Sherlock than he had been to anybody else in his entire life. And now he was gone.

_No, _he thought, _don't think about that._ He couldn't think about that, not now that he was here. This was going to be difficult enough without thinking about Sherlock and . . . everything that had happened. He just had to focus on what Sherlock wanted him to do, and get out as soon as possible. Now was not the time for another break down. Lord knows the previous one had lasted long enough.

He shook himself, and made his way up to the flat. He could _feel _Mrs Hudson's eyes on his back, and tried to maintain his composure. At least until he was out of her sight.

It had been two months since he'd climbed these stairs, and it felt strange to do so without Sherlock at his side. He remembered the first time he'd come here, trailing behind Sherlock on his bad leg. He'd barely even known him then, having only met him once. He'd stayed in the flat for all of about five minutes, before following Sherlock, off on a case. The last time he'd left was in handcuffs.

It occurred to him that he'd probably have followed Sherlock anywhere. Even before he _really _knew him, he was running around London after a murderer. And when he got to know him properly, wherever Sherlock went, he followed. It didn't matter where he was going, or why, John never even hesitated for a second. But where he had gone now, John could not follow.

At least not yet.

Once he ran out of letters to read, John had no idea what he was going to do. He knew it was quite a long time from now, but if he'd learned anything from the last two years, it was that time went quicker than you might think. Soon, a year would have passed, and he would be alone again. And he had no idea what he was going to do this time. He couldn't go on living like that.

So surely, there was only one option left?

Reaching the top of the stairs, John gripped the railing for a moment. It felt like there was a weight pressing down on his chest, and it was suddenly very hard to breath. He knew instantly that it couldn't have been the brief climb up the stairs that had done it. He closed his eyes tightly, and forced himself to think of other things.

Pushing all of those thoughts to the back of his mind, John straightened up. He squared his shoulders, and held his head high in a typical military stance. He crossed over to the door of their - of _his _flat, and let his hand linger on the handle a moment. He could hear Mrs Hudson running around downstairs, making herself a cup of tea. Perhaps he should just go and join her . . .

No. Sherlock wanted him to do this, and he was going to do it.

He turned the handle, and pushed open the door. He stepped into the flat, leaving the door open behind him, and looked around.

Everything was exactly as he had remembered. Files and reports were scattered across the floor, and books piled high on all surfaces. The cold, crisp air had iced over the windows, and the curtains were half-closed. Walking over to the desk by the wall, John saw that Kitty's files were still open on the table. Dozens and dozens of articles and pages about Richard Brook were spilled out across the wood, and the article about Sherlock was sitting on top of them.

He wondered if Kitty had ever printed that article. It was likely. He hadn't read the papers since Sherlock left, because he already knew what to expect. There was no point in reading page upon page, if he already knew what it was going to say. Of course, he wasn't completely unaware of the things that the press had been saying. He'd had plenty of phone calls, and he did still watch the news. But it didn't matter anymore.

As he looked around the flat, he couldn't help but feel that it was different somehow. Not in the way that it looked, because despite the thin layer of dust covering the surfaces, everything was the same. But in the way that it _felt. _When John thought of 221b, the words that came to mind were always warm, comforting, _home. _He didn't feel any of those things now.

The flat felt cold, and forgotten. Empty, almost. Just the same as John had been feeling for the last two months. Forgotten, and left behind.

It was almost eerie, to see a place that had once been so full of life looking so . . . dead. Because there was no 221b without Sherlock. They'd both lived there of course, but 221b had been a part of _both _of them. They'd both brought aspects of themselves into the flat, and it didn't work with just one of them. It wasn't the same, and John could feel the difference now.

He shook his head, sniffing loudly.

Turning on his heel, he made his way up to Sherlock's room. He wanted to spend as little time in the flat as possible, as it was already taking a toll on him emotionally. He could feel his legs shaking, and it was becoming harder and harder to breathe. But he wasn't giving up now. Not when he'd spent all that time working up the courage to come here.

Finding himself at Sherlock's door, curiosity got the better of him. He'd never really been in Sherlock's room, not properly anyway. The longest he'd ever been in there was a few minutes - Sherlock's room had always been off limits. Now, there was nothing stopping him. And while he felt that instant curiosity, something about it felt wrong.

This was _Sherlock's _room. It was private, and personal. And despite the fact that Sherlock was no longer here to stop him, something just didn't feel right.

_Stop being ridiculous. _He thought to himself. _Sherlock _asked _you to come here. If he didn't want you to go into his room, he would have said so. _Deciding that this was the best way to think of it, John pushed the door open.

What he found behind the door, was not exactly what he had been expecting. Obviously, he had been in Sherlock's room before. It would be a little bit ridiculous if he'd lived with the man for two years, but never seen the inside of his room. But every time John had been in his room before, the floor had been covered by experiments and notes. The tables buried under microscopes and petri dishes and chemicals.

Now, all of that was gone.

The bed was made, and all the drawers were closed. The curtains were drawn, and the wardrobe was shut. The thing that struck John the most, however, was that they were all gone. The experiments, the microscopes, the chemicals, everything. It was all gone. The room looked more like something out of a catalogue than a room that had actually been lived in.

All the personality had been drained from the room, and just like the rest of the flat - it was a shell of what it used to be. A hollow, empty shell.

Already, John's knees were beginning to buckle but he held himself together. He made his way slowly over to the table in the corner of the room, being careful not to move anything. He wanted to keep everything in the room as Sherlock had left it. As he did so, he wanted nothing more than to turn around and give up. But _had _to do this. Just this one thing for Sherlock. _Sherlock._

He looked at the rather large box on top of the table, and lifted it up in his hands. It was heavier than it looked - so heavy in fact, that John almost dropped it. He gripped it tightly in one hand, using the other to open the clasp that held it shut. His hands were shaking again as he struggled to get the box open. His fingers were stubby, and his nails short, which didn't help matters.

After about a minute of clawing at the clasp, leaving him with bleeding fingernails, he managed to get it open. The lid popped back, and John looked at the contents of the box. And for a moment, he just stood there. He was looking, but his brain couldn't really process what he was seeing. His vision became slightly blurry, and he didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

Reaching into the box, he pulled out the first item. And before he knew what was happening, a hoarse laugh broke out of his throat. It echoed through the silent flat, and filled John's ears. He couldn't remember the last time he laughed, at least not properly. For in his hand, he held Sherlock's old "friend" . . . the skull he'd named Yorick.

John took out the next item. It was Sherlock's violin.

He didn't understand. Sherlock had never really been a man of material things, but if there was one object he did value . . . or _had _valued, it was his violin. It had belonged to Sherlock since even before John had met him, and had been one of his few coping mechanisms between cases. Now that he thought about it, there was probably more to the violin than John had realized before. Sherlock's childhood wasn't something they'd ever talked about.

But even without all of that, John knew that Sherlock's violin had been important to him. So why he was now holding it in his hand, he didn't know. Surely it should have gone to Mycroft? John had no doubt that it was some sort of family heirloom, so it didn't make any sense that Sherlock would give it to him.

Placing Yorick and the violin on the bed, John noticed that there were two pieces of paper left in the box, both turned face down. He pulled them out of the box, and turned them over. A small, choked sound came out, and he felt his knees begin to buckle once more. He tried to reach behind him and grab the bed for support, but it was too late.

He fell to his knees, the papers still clutched in his hand.

The first one, was a violin composition. It looked fairly new, and John knew that Sherlock must have written it. He'd recognize that handwriting anywhere. For a moment, he just let his eyes scan over the delicate notes he had written, and the perfectly straight lines. It was then that his eyes wandered to the top of the page, and his heart stopped. Written at the top of the page, in Sherlock's sloping handwriting were the words;

_For John_

For _him. _Sherlock had composed something, _specifically _for him.

Turning the last item over in his hand, that was when he finally lost it. A suffocated cry ripped of his throat, and his eyes began to fill with tears. He'd thought he was done crying now, that he'd just run out of tears altogether. Well, it turned out he was wrong. Oh, how wrong he was. His whole body shook, and convulsed with sobs as he held the box close.

In his hand, he held the last item. It was a picture, of him and Sherlock.

He didn't even remember it being taken, he hadn't thought anything of it at the time. It was back when they were in Baskerville, and Lestrade wanted a picture of them for John to put on his website. Both John and Sherlock had been extremely against it, but Lestrade had insisted, and taken the picture anyway. And John thought that it represented both of their personalities perfectly.

They were sat outside a local pub, on a bench. Sherlock was dressed in his long, sweeping coat, the collar turned up. His hands were in his pockets, and he was leaning back casually as he scowled at Lestrade behind the camera. John was sat awkwardly beside him, trying to smile politely at the camera, but evidently annoyed.

Bringing his knees up to his chest, John continued to cry. His body trembled with the power of his sobs, and he closed his eyes tight. He tried to think of something - anything - else, to make it stop. To stop the aching hole in his chest. But he couldn't. All he could think about was that photograph. The image was forever burned into the back of his mind. And it _hurt._

God, did it hurt.

Because Sherlock had _kept _that photograph. Not only that, but he'd seen it as something important. And now he wanted John to have it. Sherlock Holmes, the least sentimental man on Earth. And he'd composed a _song _for him. Especially for John. Sherlock had always claimed that he wasn't sentimental, but it seemed that John was his exception. Somehow, that made it worse.

"John, dear . . . do you want to come down for some tea?"


	4. April 15th, 2012

**Hey guys!**

**Thank you for all of your continuing reviews and support! I'm glad that you're liking it, as I wasn't really sure at first whether this was going to work. If any of you were wondering, the inspiration for this fic came from the book Undone by Cat Clarke. It's a great book, and I really would recommend reading it, though the ending is slightly disappointing.**

**Once again, I'm sorry for the late update. There isn't really much I can do at the moment, just ask that you have patience with me. This probably doesn't seem worth the time that you waited, but I promise that better chapters are on their way.**

**Another thank you to DoctorSherlockLove, WickedFlamePrincess, Lusiada, ellieee98, and hAde for your amazing reviews!**

**I won't keep you any longer!**

**Megan**

**oxox**

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* * *

April 15th 2012

_John,_

_I hope that you did manage to go back to the flat, and that you found it helpful. I don't mind if you kept the box or not, just as long as you at least got to look at what was inside. Like I said, it doesn't matter to me what you do with those things from this point onwards, I just wanted you to see them. Equally, I understand if you didn't go back at all. I realize how painful it would have been._

_You may not think I understand that, what it's like. But I do. Though I think that story may be better suited for another letter. It's a little soon for those sorts of things, and I don't think it's the right time to tell you about that._

_Anyway, I don't mind if you didn't go back, John. I understand, I do. But at least go outside? I know I'm writing this months before you will actually read it, so I can't be absolutely certain as you what you're doing. But I'd like to think that I know you well enough. So even though I can't be completely accurate, I'm willing to bet that you haven't left the flat properly for months._

_So go out. Go for a drink with Mike, or Lestrade. Take Mrs Hudson out for dinner, or just talk to her. Visit Molly, or even Mycroft. It doesn't much matter who, just . . . see _someone. _Square your shoulders, put on a brave face, and show the world - especially the press - that you're okay, and that you're getting through this. Even if you're not._

_Because the second they see that you're cracking, they won't hesitate to break you entirely._

_You need to talk to someone, John. No matter who it is. In the first few weeks afterwards, you probably went back to counselling didn't you? But by now, I'm presuming you've given up on that. You never much liked it anyway; I know you always thought it was pointless. So don't go there, go to someone else. Someone you can actually trust. Someone who won't let you hold back._

_Just . . . don't be alone. Please. Because I know more than anyone, that being alone doesn't fix anything. I thought I was doing fine on my own, I really did. Until you came along. And then I realized that I really hadn't been fine at all. So I'm asking you not to be alone, because I know now that it's never the answer. Isolating yourself, and building up walls from the rest of the world . . . it doesn't solve anything._

_But it's not just that. I . . . I don't want you to be wasted, John. When I met you, you made me . . . better. You made me better at my job, but you also made me a better person. You made me feel worthwhile, and . . . special. Oh God, this is already turning into some kind of sappy love letter . . . but that's what you _do, _John. And I'd hate for that to go to waste._

_I don't want to be the only person to ever have the privilege of knowing you. I think that would be a damned shame._

_- SH_

John dried his eyes, and put the letter down on the desk. His hands were shaking, and he felt a little bit sick. He didn't know why he kept doing this to himself, dragging it out. This was only the third letter, and he was an emotional wreck. Every time he went to open one, he knew what he was setting himself up for. And yet he did it anyway. Every damned month.

It would be so much easier if he just opened all the letters now, and . . . no. He _promised. _He made a promise to himself, and to Sherlock, that he would do it his way. Sherlock had spent his last few hours hand-writing all these letters, for _him. _They were an important part of him, and John had to hold on to them for as long as possible. If only to keep the memory of him alive for a little longer.

As he got up to make himself a drink, John mulled over the contents of the letter. It seemed that John being alone was a major concern for Sherlock, as he mentioned it in almost every letter. And it killed him. Because Sherlock had been alone, when he'd been writing those letters. John had left him alone. Because he hadn't _realized, _he hadn't _listened._

He could tell himself as many times as he wanted, that it had been Sherlock's _plan _for him to leave . . . but it didn't change anything. In Sherlock's final moments, when he was about to _die, _John had left him alone.

And the thing that made that all the more horrifying, was that he'd _known. _John had known, as he'd walked out that door, that something was wrong. There was no way Sherlock would have left Mrs Hudson to die in hospital. Normally, he would've been out of the chair, and searching for the culprit before John could even finish a sentence. But he hadn't, he'd just sat there.

And John had _seen _it. He'd seen it, in Sherlock's eyes. The defeat. The whole time they'd talked, Sherlock had avoided looking at him as much as he could. Because he hadn't wanted John to notice that anything was wrong. Because John always noticed when something was wrong. And he had seen it. He'd seen it, and he'd ignored it.

And he thought about it every damned day.

* * *

Dressed in a new shirt that he had bought just that morning, John crossed the street to the pub. His hands were shaking, and he was suddenly nervous. It had been almost three months since he'd properly been out of the flat, and he'd developed a strange kind of anxiety. Every noise, every movement, every step seemed foreign to him. And the thought of spending the night at a bar full of people terrified him.

But he was doing this for Sherlock. Because he'd let him down. He'd left him, when Sherlock had needed him the most.

He shook his head. He didn't want to think about that right now. He knew Sherlock wouldn't have wanted him to. Tonight was about having fun, or at least trying to. Because eventually, he was going to run out of letters. And then Sherlock would really be gone. And he needed to figure what he was going to do, when that happened.

Standing in the door-well, John took a deep breath. He squared his shoulders, and held his chin up high. It was odd, how it felt more like he was going into battle, than going for a drink with a friend. Plastering a fake smile on, he pulled open the door, and stepped inside.

The pub seemed quiet enough. There were a few old drunks huddled in a corner, and what appeared to be a few college students stood by the bar. The Killers was playing in the background, and John wondered how long it had been since he'd even heard music. The smell of wood and beer hung in the air, and it took John's eyes a few seconds to adjust to the dark lighting.

As he glanced around, he spotted Greg Lestrade sitting at the edge of the bar.

He looked . . . different somehow. John thought of the last time he'd seen him, stood in their - _his _flat, taking Sherlock into custody. Or at least trying to. He'd looked so conflicted, so tired. He'd looked as if he were almost at breaking point, and John had never seen him look like that before. But somehow, the way he looked now seemed worse.

His hair was shorted, and John guessed he'd had it cut only a few days ago. There were dark, blue rings under his eyes, and he seemed a lot thinner, his clothes too big. He was hunched over the bar, a beer clasped between his two hands. His wedding ring was gone, so he'd finally broken things off with his wife. John didn't think he'd ever seen him look so . . . exhausted. And he was willing to bet that he didn't look any better.

Lestrade's head shot up, as John took the seat next to him. A sad smile spread across his pale lips.

"I didn't think you were going to come," he said, and John had never heard him sound so . . . small. He wondered if Lestrade had gone to Sherlock's funeral, or whether it had been too much for him. John had only been able to stay for the first five minutes. It had just been too overwhelming. Too _real. _Lestrade had known Sherlock much longer than John, so it must have been hard for him too.

"Neither did I," John muttered, and called the bartender over, ordering himself a drink. He was going to need one if he was going to get through tonight. Watching the bartender turn to pour his beer, John swung onto the stool next to Lestrade, leaning over the bar. He paid the bartender for his drink, and raised it to his lips. The cool, fresh beer ran down his throat.

"So how've you been?" Lestrade asked him, turning on his stool. His tired, brown eyes examined John, and it didn't look as though they liked what they found. John knew he must look a mess, but there hadn't really been much reason for him to keep himself in check. Since this was the first time he'd been out for a while, he'd made an effort at least. Still, that didn't make up for months of no sunlight.

"I've . . . been better," he said, and Lestrade sighed.

John turned to take another sip from his beer, and Lestrade did the same. As he turned, he glanced at the clock across the bar. He'd only been at the bar a couple of minutes, and there were a few hours to go before it was socially acceptable for him to make up an excuse and leave. Not that John had ever really cared about what was "socially acceptable".

If this were any other situation, he probably would have left by now . . . but Lestrade was one of the only connections to Sherlock that he had left. John realized how wrong that sounded, and he wished that it weren't true. But it was. The only reason that he was still here, was that Lestrade had known Sherlock too. Of course, Lestrade was his friend . . . but several of John's other "friends" had been inviting him out for weeks. All of which, he had politely declined.

He was about to turn and say something, when Lestrade set his beer down again.

"I know why you're here, John." he said, looking down at the bar table, and playing with a beer mat absentmindedly. John stiffened, his eyes fixed on the opposite wall. "And it's okay, really. I understand. We were never really that close anyway, were we? If it weren't for Sherlock, we wouldn't even know each other. He was the one that brought us together. And look at us now, he's still doing it."

"Greg, I don't -" John began, turning to look at the other man, but Lestrade stopped him.

"I told you, I understand." he interrupted, continuing to focus on the beer mat. "D'you know something? I never told you this before, because I thought Sherlock would have told you himself eventually, but . . . he really did love you, you know . . ."

"What? He didn't . . . I mean, he can't . . . I don't know what you're implying, but -" John protested, but Lestrade cut him off, again.

"No, I wasn't saying . . . no. I mean . . . he _needed _you. Wanted you around," he muttered lamely, and John turned, confused. Lestrade sighed, putting the beer mat down on the table. He looked at John, and suddenly, his eyes were full of sincerity. "I knew him for seven years, John. Seven years, and now it feels like I never really knew him at all. You were the only one that . . . that ever got close to him. He was different around you . . . better. You made him more . . . human. Think what you like John, but he did love you. Just not in the way that people thought."

"Anyway . . ." Lestrade said, downing the rest of his beer in one gulp. "Ready for another round?"


	5. May 15th, 2012

**Hey guys!**

**I'm glad you liked the last chapter, as it really wasn't my best. I'm not feeling particularly confident about this chapter either, but we are getting towards the good stuff, I promise. The next letter is the one I'm particularly looking forward to, so just stay with me. I promise it's going to get better.**

**Once again, I apologize for the late update. I've had several exams at school in these past few weeks, so I haven't really had much time. It's quite sad actually, I haven't been on tumblr properly for about five days. I'm having withdrawal symptoms.**

**Thanks to WickedFlamePrincess, foonkey, Sentimental Star, BritishSweden ,and McKenzieAnne for your reviews!**

**Enjoy!**

**Megan**

**oxox**

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* * *

May 15th 2012

_John,_

_I hope you decided to take my advice and go out. I really do think that it could do you some good. But I've been thinking about it, and I realize now how it must come across, me asking you to do these things. And I just wanted you to know that you don't have to feel like I'm pressuring you in anyway. That was not my intention at all. I don't want you to do these things because you feel like you _have _to. I want you to do them because you_ want _to. I don't want you to feel like I'm hanging my death over your head as some kind of emotional blackmail._

_What I'm trying to say is . . . it doesn't matter. If you didn't go out, it doesn't matter. There's always the next time._

_I know I probably should stop bringing this up, but have you thought about moving back into the flat yet? Again, I'm not trying to pressure you, I swear . . . I just think that maybe you should start giving it some thought. You don't have to make any immediate decisions, but it won't be long before it starts to gather dust. Maybe you could talk to Mrs Hudson? She was always good with . . . feelings, things like that._

_But then, maybe you've been to see her already? Maybe I'm wrong. And I am wrong, sometimes. It's a rare occurrence, I know, but it does happen. Maybe I've got the whole thing _entirely _wrong. Maybe you're fine. Maybe my death didn't affect you at all. Maybe you just carried on with your life. Is it wrong that I wish for that far more than the alternative?_

_I really must stop writing these things, it can't be much good for either of us._

_There's . . . something else. Something else that I want you to do. And really, you don't have to. But could you talk to Mycroft? I know I never really cared much for him when I was alive, or at least I never seemed to. But he's still my brother (unfortunately). I can't imagine he'll have taken any time out from work after my death, though that's not to say it won't have affected him._

_As you know, Mycroft and I have a very . . . difficult relationship. If you do go to see him, he'll probably try and act as though nothing is wrong. Because he's British. He believes that's what he's _supposed _to do. He believes emotions are for the weak. A thought that we used to have in common._

_Anyway, just . . . try to see him, will you? Even if you don't talk about me at all. Or maybe you could send someone else? Mrs Hudson, or Lestrade? It doesn't much matter, just as long as someone talks to him. I just want you to make sure that . . . to make sure that he's alright (not that I care)._

_- SH_

Putting the letter down, John sighed. It was getting too much. Three months in, and already he could barely stand it. There was just something about the letters, something about . . . holding a piece of him. Having him there, if only for a few moments, only for him to be ripped away again when he'd finished reading. And as the letters went on, John could almost _hear _Sherlock mentally breaking down, just as he was.

He placed his head in his hands, taking several deep breaths. His whole body was shaking, and his mouth was dry. His eyes were heavy with fatigue, but he hadn't been able to sleep properly since the fall. Every time he closed his eyes, all he saw was Sherlock. Falling. And every night, he tried so hard to save him. To stop him from falling. But he was always just that little bit too late.

He didn't know why he kept doing this to himself, why he didn't just open all the letters in one go. Surely it would save him from the pain, at least? Living day, after day, just waiting to read another letter, and to be destroyed all over again. If the only reason he was carrying on living, was just to read those letters . . . why not read them all at once? Then it would all be over.

Reaching for the stack of letters with his shaking hands, John dumped them all on his bed. Looking at them now, he was taken aback. All they really were, was a few pieces of paper, with some words scribbled on them. In the grand scheme of things, they seemed pretty insignificant. But the words they held . . . well they were more important than anything John had ever owned in his life. Sherlock's last words.

Shaking his head, he turned on his heel, clasping his hands behind his head. His breath was coming in short rasps, and a powerful feeling of rage was building up, deep inside his gut. It was clawing, and _burning. _Desperate to get out. He'd kept it bottled up for so long, and now it was scorching, and searing inside him. It ripped through his body, scratching and burning. Until he could feel it, right in his throat, in his heart, his lungs, his _blood. _

Turning back, he looked at the letters on the bed. Picking them up, and clutching them in fists, he threw them to the floor. His blood boiling, he kicked out with his legs, his feet colliding with the bed. Again, and again, and again. He picked the bed up by the frame, and turned it up against the wall in one great, burst of strength. He continued to kick at it with his feet, until one of the wooden boards supporting it eventually gave way.

Cursing, he struck out behind him, knocking over the empty table and chair. A sharp pain shot up his leg, but it was nothing compared to the pain he was already feeling.

His eyes darted across the room, landing on his stick. Cold, solid aluminium. Balling his hands up into fists once more, he raced across the room, and grabbed the stick by it's handle. For a moment, he held it, and he was reminded of the time in his life that it represented. Before he met Sherlock, before any of this happened. He was reminded of the hell he'd been living in. And he was reminded of the fact that now, things had become so much _worse._

Tears began to cloud his vision, as he held the stick in a shaking fist. Bringing his other hand up to grasp the stick, he turned. His vision blurry, and head spinning, he swung the stick. It collided with the table, sending another shock of pain up his left arm. He ignored it, and swung again. The third time, he lifted the stick higher, above his shoulder, and brought it down again. The wood splintered, and John struck out again.

Again, and again, and again.

Until everything just went black.

* * *

When his vision cleared, John felt sick. He was crouched in the middle of the room, surrounded by broken objects. The table was splintered and cracked, and the chair was missing a leg. His bed remained turned up against the wall, and a shelf had been ripped from the wall. Next to where the shelf had been, was a whole in the wall. Looking at it brought a stinging pain to his knuckles. John looked down at his hands, and suddenly became aware of the fact that he was holding something.

Gripped between his bleeding hands, was the picture that Sherlock had left for him. He must have picked it up in a fit of rage, intending to throw it. John looked at the picture, his own smiling face staring back at him. He wondered how it had come to this, and why it had had to happen to him, of all people. As he stood up, his knees buckled. He must've caused himself some serious damage.

Limping over to the table, he picked it up gently, standing it back up. He placed the picture atop the table, and staggered towards the kitchen.

He could feel bile rising in his throat, and his stomach was in knots. His knuckles were bruised at least, and he was in desperate need of medical attention for his legs. But somehow, he couldn't bring himself to care. At least now, the physical pain was almost a match for the emotional pain he'd been in for the past few months.

Going to the kitchen sink, turned the tap on. As the cold water streamed across his hands, he winced. His knuckles were cut open across both hands, and his fingernails were bleeding from where he'd tried to claw the shelf from the wall. There were also long cuts along the backs of his hands, but they weren't that serious. He wasn't going to need stitches, at least.

He knew he was going to have to explain all of this to the landlord, but he didn't much feel like it tonight. Besides, it seemed that nobody had heard his little . . . outburst anyway. Or if they had, they'd just ignored it. So there was no cause for concern at the moment, at least, not until the rent was due and the landlord came knocking on his door. But that was a while away yet, he could get things sorted out by then . . .

As he watched his blood by washed away by the water, John thought back to the letter he'd read earlier that night. He supposed that he would have to go back to 221b eventually. Mrs Hudson wasn't going to wait forever, and it was much better rent than the dump he was currently living in. And it might be better for him, to go back there. To be among Sherlock's things again, and to . . . no, it most definitely would _not _be better. But it had to be done.

And Mycroft.

Sherlock had mentioned in his letter that he wanted John to visit Mycroft, and see if he was "alright". John wasn't sure if he was ready for that yet. He had no doubt that Mycroft was absolutely fine, and had taken his little brother's death in his stride. He wasn't quite ready yet for the snide remarks, and the cool brush-offs that seemed to come hand-in-hand with Mycroft Holmes.

No, he'd save that little visit for another day.

Turning off the tap, John looked down at his hands. From a distance, they appeared perfectly fine, and polished. But much like John himself, when you got a closer look, the damage was strikingly clear. However, there wasn't much more he could do for the moment. In the morning, he'd go down to the hospital and get himself checked out. Not that he couldn't give himself a perfectly sound analysis anyway.

Bruised and cut knuckles, possible sprain in arm, maybe a fracture in left leg.

Nothing he couldn't handle. No, it was the _emotional _pain that was getting too much for him. The empty, hollow feeling in his chest that seemed to just be _constant. _The aching feeling that enveloped his entire body, and the stinging cold that he felt. But growing up with the father he'd had, and Harry as a sister . . . he knew just how to deal with that.

Making his way to the cupboard, he pulled it open. The shelves were almost entirely bare, apart from enough food to last him the next few days. And, tucked away in the corner to avoid temptation . . . a bottle of whiskey that he'd confiscated from Harry at Christmas.

Pulling it out of the corner, he unscrewed the top, and inhaled. He let out a bitter laugh as he winced. It was a lot stronger than he remembered, as it had been years since he'd had a glass, or even a sip, of whiskey. For the last few years, he'd been trying to set a good example for Harry. To show her that you didn't need alcohol to live your life. But Harry wasn't here.

He was about to reach for a glass, when he thought; _But what's the point? _Shrugging, he closed the cupboard door, and raised the bottle to his lips. Taking a long slurp of the whiskey, he felt the pain begin to dull. It didn't get rid of it entirely, more like . . . left it as a distant memory. The pain was still there, but it was like he was separate from it. As though he were no longer feeling it.

Sitting on the splintered table-top, John raised the bottle to his lips once more.


	6. June 15th, 2012

**Hey guys!**

**I really wasn't sure about the last chapter, and I'm honestly not that sure about this one either. But I've been looking forward to writing it for a while. Hopefully, it's alright, and you all like it. Also, sorry for taking so long on the update. I do have a lot of exams going on at the moment, so please bear that in mind.**

**The last chapter didn't do particularly well with reviews, so I'm asking you again to pleaaaaaaaase review? It really does mean a lot, and it would make my Christmas. But thank you to McKenzieAnne and BritishSweden for your reviews! :)**

**This has been a pretty short Author's Note, so I guess all that's left to say is . . . Merry Christmas!**

**Enjoy,**

**Megan**

**oxox**

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twitter: NamesNotDorris  
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* * *

June 15th 2012

_John,_

_I expect you've made the decision by now about whether or not you're going to go back to Baker Street. Not that it really matters, but I respect whatever choice it is that you've made. I can't possibly imagine (nor do I particularly want to) what this is like for you. Had our roles been reversed . . . I honestly don't know if I would have lasted as long as you have._

_Emotions and . . . feelings were something that we never really talked about. I suppose you just assumed that I didn't have any. Then again, I never gave you any reason to think differently. I was never really the sentimental type, which I guess is a bit of an understatement. I always thought that caring put you at a disadvantage. That it opened you up to the hurt, and to the pain._

_I always thought the best way to handle emotions, was to run from them._

_But I understand it now. Because you can run for as long as you like, but whatever it is that you're running from will always catch up to you in the end. The only difference is that the longer you run, the weaker you'll be when you finally stop._

_I often wished that I could be more like you, you know. I never would have admitted it, of course. I didn't want you getting _too _full of yourself . . . but I always thought that things seemed to come much easier to you. You never really cared much of what people thought, but you still managed never to put yourself first. You never let your emotions get the better of you, and I always found that you used them to your advantage. You were just the perfect balance of . . . well, everything._

_And you always knew just what to say._

_I wish you were here now, John._

_It's your birthday soon, isn't it? Two days away, if I remember correctly. I know I always told you that dates and such didn't really matter to me - not unless they were to do with my work, obviously. They just weren't important. But . . . I seem to have made an exception for you. In these past few hours that you've been gone I've been deleting all the things I'm not going to need any more. Deduction skills, information, things like that. And yes, even the two hundred and forty-three types of tobacco ash. I've been getting rid of all of this, in order to make room for . . . more important things._

_Things like your favourite jumper, and the sound your shoes made on your way up the stairs. The smell of the products you use on your hair, and the slight curl of your hair at the nape of your neck. The songs you used to whistle in the mornings when you thought that I couldn't hear you, and the way that you still walk with a slight limp even now._

_I never believed that these things could be important, that they could be anything more than worthless pieces of information. But now that I'm facing my last moments . . . they seem like the most important thing in the world._

_Happy Birthday, John._

_- SH_

"John?"

John's head shot up, as he heard a voice at his door. He sniffed loudly, wiping his eyes on the back of an old shirt he was wearing. The material scratched against the stubble that he hadn't bothered to shave for the past week and a half. He just didn't see the point anymore, to be honest. He didn't really see the point in anything anymore.

"John?" came the voice again, this time accompanied by a soft knock at the door. "Are you ready? We've got to be there in fifteen minutes . . ."

He didn't answer, and just continued to stare at the letter with tired eyes. This one was certainly more painful than the others, and he had a feeling that they were only going to get worse as he carried on. He'd never heard Sherlock sound so . . . broken. So defeated. It was like he was watching him break down before his very eyes.

As he stared at the letter, he could see his vision was beginning to blur again. Though whether that was from the drink, or his tears, he couldn't tell.

After reading the last letter, he'd hit the drink pretty hard. It seemed to be the only thing that numbed the pain, though it never quite managed to take it away completely. He didn't know if anything ever would. Sometimes, he stopped drinking long enough for him to sober up. Just for a _moment. _Just to see if anything had changed.

And then the pain would come back, even more blinding than ever. And then he would drink until he blacked out.

"John?" the voice called again.

John shook his head, reaching for the bottle at his bedside table. He had no idea what was in it, nor did he care. It did the job, and that was all that mattered. Lifting it to his lips, he took a long swig, wincing when it reached his throat. It rushed through his body, and warmed him. He felt it, coursing through his veins like fire. It was the only thing that he ever allowed himself to feel anymore. That short-lived rush.

Suddenly, the door to his room was thrown open.

Kneeling in front of his bed, John turned to look at the intruder with glazed eyes. Harry was standing in the doorway, holding a jumper on a coat hanger. Light was streaming into the room from behind her, causing a throbbing pain in his head. His eyes were beginning to sting, and he crouched on the floor, trying desperately to shield his eyes.

"John . . . what is it? What's -" Harry began, but then she stopped abruptly. She quickly closed the door behind her, and John looked up, interested to see what it was that had stopped his chatterbox sister mid-sentence. As he followed her eyes to the bottle in the corner, he felt his chest tighten. _Shit. _He couldn't look her in the eyes, and cursed himself for not hiding it before she came in.

"H-Harry . . . I didn't . . . didn't mean . . . I d-d-d-didn't want . . ." he mumbled, his words slurring. He reached for her, his hands grasping at the air desperately.

"Oh, John." she sighed, shaking her head. She hung the coat hanger on the door handle, and kneeled in front of him. For a moment, John thought she was going to shout at him, or worse, pick up the bottle and start drinking _with _him. But instead, as always, she did the last thing he would've expected. She placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, then pulling him in for a hug.

That was what finished him off. His body shook and convulsed with the sobs that he could no longer contain, as he cried into his sister's shirt. There was something about the familiar smell of whiskey and Chanel No 5 that just made him feel . . . safe. And he was able to let out all of the fear, and the pain that he'd been holding in for the last few months.

John knew that you couldn't ignore it forever. Because essentially that's what he had been doing. He'd been ignoring the pain, so that he didn't have to feel it. But the thing about pain was, that it demanded to be felt. So you could ignore it for as long as you wanted. It would always be there when you got back.

In a way, he supposed that that's what Sherlock was trying to say in his letter. That running from something didn't make it go away; it just made it harder to deal with when you finally stopped. John could ignore the pain for as long as he wanted. He could drink himself blind. But it wouldn't change the fact that Sherlock was gone. It would just make it worse when he finally sobered up.

"Little brother . . . what happened to you?" Harry whispered, as she held John in her arms. John tried to reply, but all that came out were choked gasping sounds. Of course, she knew what happened to him. Sherlock Holmes happened. He'd paraded into her brother's life, all long coat and charm, and then he'd jumped right out again, without so much as an explanation.

Pulling back from the hug, Harry stood up once more. John quickly stood to join her, stumbling on his feet slightly. He gripped her arm to steady himself, as Harry's eyes shot to the bed. John followed her gaze to the envelopes and letters scattered across the dirty sheets. He made a move for them, to hide them somewhere before it was too late . . . but Harry gently moved him out of the way.

"Are these . . . are they from him?" she asked, picking up one of the unopened letters. She turned it over in her hands several times, tracing over the writing with her finger. John watched, panic-stricken, as she picked up today's letter. She glanced at the date in the corner, and quickly scanned the paper. Harry had always been a quick reader, and it wasn't a particularly long letter to be honest.

"H-H-He assshhhhked Molly to . . . to givvvvvve themmmmm to mmmme." John slurred, forcing the words out. "Afffffter h-he . . ."

_"John . . . _I know I only met him once, but . . . he really did love you, you know." John spluttered in protest, but Harry held up a hand to stop him, placing the letter back on the bed. "He _did. _Maybe not in the way that most people thought he did, but he did love you. I read your blog posts about him, John. He didn't seem like the type of guy who'd stay up until all hours of his _last night on Earth, _writing letters for just anyone. No, I saw the way he looked at you. He loved you, John."

"H-H-Harry -"

"Shhhhh, come on." she interrupted him again, sitting him down in the chair. "We're going to fix you up, give you a shave, get you looking all handsome again. Then we're going to go out, you're going to give me that _dazzling _smile that all the ladies seem to love, and we're going to have a damn good time. You know why? Because he wouldn't have wanted this for you. He would've wanted you to at least try."


	7. July 15th, 2012

**Hey guys!**

**So I hope you all had a great Christmas! Sorry about the last chapter, but a part of Voldemort/Moffat lives inside me. I can't promise that things will get better any time soon, but I am providing tissues for all of you, because you seem to need them. I'm also providing shock-blankets for you all for series 3.**

**Also, sorry for the late update. I got a new laptop for Christmas, and I'm still trying to get the hang of it! ****Thanks to Lusaida, greengirl16, lauraiscumberbatched, BritishSweden, and A Lotus Flower for all of your amazing reviews! It really does mean a lot.**

**Enjoy!**

**Megan**

**oxox**

**tumblr: personyourparentswarnedyouabout (It's an ear-hat, John!)  
twitter: NamesNotDorris  
YouTube: sherlockian13 (MyName'sNotDorris)**

* * *

July 15th 2012

_John,_

_I hope that you had a good birthday, and I'm sorry that I couldn't be there. You have no idea how much I wish I could have been. I'm sorry that I didn't get you anything either, though I suppose it's a bit late to be thinking about that now. After you left - a few hours ago now - I called Harry. I was thinking about the year, and all of the things that I won't be there for. And your birthday was one of them._

_I asked - well, told is probably a more accurate word - her to throw you a birthday party. I said that it didn't have to be big, just that she had to make sure that you went to it. And to make sure that you had fun. I asked her to do a couple of other things too, though I don't think she really understood what I was talking about. My mind is a mess, and I wasn't speaking very clearly._

_Hopefully, she'll understand soon. When she sees the papers. I haven't got the time to call her and explain again. I know she'll have taken you out, though I don't think she'll have mentioned the phone call. I'm probably the last thing the two of you want to talk about on the one day that you could potentially be happy. I don't even know why I'm telling you, really. I think I just wanted you to know that I tried._

_I've been up for a while now, thinking. The last few days have been a little extreme, even for me. I haven't really sat and thought in a long time, and now it seems like all my thoughts are catching up with me. They're invading my mind in rushes, and honestly, it's getting a little hard to keep up. All of the things that passed me by, all of the things that I never picked up on. Clues that I missed, cases I could have solved. _

_Molly._

_I never really noticed her, did I? I was _aware _of her, but I never truly _noticed _her. Never _appreciated _her. I knew she had . . . feelings for me. Though I think even a fool would have noticed that. It was blindingly obvious. But I __just never thought that it was worth mentioning. Even knowing that, though. Even then, I never paid her much attention. Not unless I wanted something. _

_You probably think that I used her. And maybe I did, sometimes. But I never saw it as such. I saw it as . . . appreciating her for her talents, and utilising them. Of course, I look back on it now, and I know what I did. I did use her, probably on more than one occasion. But she never said anything. Not once. She must've known I was only doing it for myself . . . but she never seemed to mind. _

_Four years._

_Four years I've known her, and I'm only just thinking about all of this now. She said something to me . . . in the lab. Something that made me think. Not just about her, and . . . all of this. But about myself. It was when we were investigating the kidnappers footprints . . . in the very room that I'm sat in now, as I write to you. I don't suppose you heard the conversation, and I didn't really have the time to discuss it with you._

_She turned to me, and she said; "You're a bit like my Dad.". Of course, I was completely absorbed in my work at the time, and you know what I'm like when people try and communicate with me. I told her that she shouldn't feel the need to make conversation, as it wasn't her area. But she was quite persistent, and it looked as though it were something she'd wanted to say for a while._

_She told me that when her father was dying, he was always happy. She said that he was "lovely". Except when he thought that no one could see him. She said that she saw him once, and that he looked sad. _

_At this point, I had a vague idea where the conversation was going. My heart was beating so loudly I was sure you could hear it from across the room. Stupid idea, of course. I warned her again, but my voice sounded weaker. No point really. She wanted to say it, so she was clearly going to._

_"You look sad. When you think he can't see you."_

_She was referring to you, obviously. _

_But the point is, it never really occurred to me. I'd always just assumed that as long as I was breathing - I was fine. However, I understand now that that's not necessarily true. There's a big difference between living and surviving. I'm sure that you, of all people understand that. But when Molly said that, that was when it finally hit me that maybe something was wrong._

_But I don't want to talk about that right now. I'm not ready to talk about that._

_Anyway, Molly told me that she understood what it meant. That I looked . . . sad when nobody else could see me. So I remarked simply that she could see me, thinking that I could prove her wrong. And that was when she said the words that have had me thinking for quite a while._

_"I don't count." _

_At the time, I thought it was the most ridiculous thing I'd ever heard. It didn't make any sense. And I didn't understand how someone could be so blind to their own worth. After all, how many cases had she helped with? How many lives had she saved? How many family's minds had she put at ease? She was brilliant. And she thought she was worthless._

_Do you want to know the worst part, though? The worst part is that I was most likely the reason she thought that in the first place._

_Because all I could see was you._

_I know this letter is becoming ridiculously long, but I just want to tell you one last thing. All of this thinking I've been doing about Molly, and how she never knew how much she meant . . . I don't think I ever told you how much _you _meant to me, either. I always told you that the work was the only thing that mattered . . . but you must've known that I included you in that too. You must've known . . . because I couldn't bear it if I made you feel that way as well._

_- SH_

* * *

"Hello?"

John heard Harry's voice on the other side of the line. He held the phone tightly to his ear as he sat on his bed. Light was coming in through a small gap in the curtains, hurting his eyes. Quickly, he got up and closed the gap. Ever since his breakdown a few months ago, he had barely left his flat. The only time he ever went out was for food, or when Harry forced him out. Apart from that, he just sat at home drinking.

And this morning had been no exception. Especially after reading Sherlock's letter.

They were getting worse. In each letter, Sherlock seemed to be getting more and more emotional. More human. It was like John was watching him break slowly. Not to mention the fact that his handwriting was getting scratchier and messier. John knew that that could just be down to tiredness. Sherlock hadn't slept for days when he was writing those letters, and it was very late in the night. But he knew better than that. Sherlock didn't get tired, not ever.

Putting it to the back of his mind, he thought about Harry.

"How could you?" he spat through gritted teeth. "How . . . _could _you?"

"John? What are you talking about? Is . . . is everything alright?" Harry asked, sounding confused. He didn't understand. He felt betrayed. Of course she knew what he was talking about. She had to. She wouldn't have forgotten it that easily. "John . . . have you been drinking again? I thought we talked about this! It's not the answer. It's not . . . it's not going to bring him ba-"

"Shut up! Don't talk about him! Don't you dare!" John cried, and he could already feel tears coming to his eyes. He cursed himself for being so weak. "How could you sit there . . . and not tell me? Why didn't you tell me, Harry? It's not like you didn't have the chance! And you _knew. _You must've known. It wasn't that difficult to work out. Why didn't you call me? I could've . . . I could've done something . . ."

"John? John, you're scaring me. Please . . . tell me what's wrong."

"You!" he yelled, no longer able to contain himself. He didn't care if his neighbours complained, didn't care who heard him. "He called you, before he jumped! He called you, and you spoke to him! You never told me! Never thought it was worth mentioning! He . . . he asked you to do something didn't he? Something for me? Why didn't you tell me?"

"I . . ." Harry began, and then sighed. "Yes, he called me. I was over at Clara's, and he woke me up. I remembered thinking that something was wrong as soon as I looked at the Caller ID. When I answered, he sounded . . . different. He sounded . . . as though he was in pain. He told me not to worry, and that everything was going to be fine. But he asked me to . . . throw you a birthday party. At that point I just assumed he was drunk, or crazy. Or both. I asked him why, and he said . . ."

"He said what?" John asked, his voice sounding choked.

"He said that he was going away, and that he was going to be gone a while. I asked him where he was going, but he just said 'Somewhere John can't come with me'. I think I knew then what he was asking, but I didn't want to admit it to myself. It just didn't seem right. Didn't seem _real. _I thought that I would put the phone down, and that it would all have been some crazy dream. But then . . . before he hung up, he asked me to do one last thing . . ."

"What?"

"He said 'Look after him.'"

"So that's it then? You knew? All these months I've been sat here, missing him, _mourning _him . . . and you never once thought to mention that phone call? Not even once? Or did it just never come up in conversation?" John asked, his voice laced with bitterness and sarcasm. "Lord knows, you made me talk about him enough times! Just . . . tell me why?"

"I didn't want . . . I didn't think that he wanted you to know."

"Well, obviously, you were wrong! He wrote about your little . . . conversation in a letter. If he didn't want me to know, then why would he have told me?" John pinched the bridge of his nose, a headache forming behind his eyes. "When you got that call, Harry . . . why didn't you just call me? Even if you were wrong, and everything was fine . . . why didn't you call, just to make sure?"

"John, I-"

"No, no more excuses." John sighed, "You knew. You knew something was wrong, and you didn't tell me. You knew he was dying, or that he was in trouble, and you did nothing. I don't want to talk to you. I don't want to hear from you ever again. At least not until I get things figured out. Don't call me, don't text me, don't e-mail me. Just . . . leave me alone. You as good as killed him."

John pulled the phone from his ear, and hung up.


	8. August 15th, 2012

**Hey guys!**

**What did you think of the first two episodes?! I've talked about them so much now that I think I've actually run out of words. The amount of feels in both of those episodes, I just . . . everything was perfect. If anyone's interested, I'm currently working on two Johnlock one-shots. One based off of the train scene in the Empty Hearse, and another based on the last few seconds of the Sign of Three.**

**Thanks to BritishSweden, GoTherka and Sparticus328 for your reviews on the last chapter! It really does mean a lot, and I hope that you all like this chapter even more! It's a little longer than usual, but I'm quite proud of it.**

**Enjoy!**

**Megan**

**oxox**

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Twitter: OxOxMeganOxOx  
YouTube: sherlockian13**

* * *

August 15th 2012

John knocked on the door lightly, wincing as the sound pierced through his headache. In hindsight, this probably _wasn't _such a good idea after all. He should've just stayed at home, and read Sherlock's letter. Gotten drunk, like he always did, and then fallen asleep clutching the letter in his shaking hands. It seemed that his life had become this strange cycle in these past few months, but this morning was different. This morning, he'd woken up with an idea. No, more of an . . . impulse. Like there was something that he _had _to do.

And that was why he was stood on Molly's porch at ten o'clock in the morning.

He didn't even know if she still lived her, or if she'd be in. The last time he'd seen her was when she'd delivered Sherlock's letters. He'd expected to see her at the birthday party Harry had arranged for him, but she'd never turned up. He guessed Harry had just forgotten to invite her, or never intended to in the first place. After all, they barely knew each other. The only reason they were even aware of each other's existence was Sherlock.

_Sherlock. _God, it had been seven months now. Seven months without him. To be honest, John was surprised that he'd lasted this long. He supposed that if Molly hadn't given him those letters, he would have given up a long time ago. But now he felt a sense of duty. A sense of loyalty, to Sherlock. To just make it to next year. To just make it that far, and then it was up to him.

He'd already made his decision. Really, the decision had been made from the moment he'd opened that first letter. He was going to stick it out until next year, until that last letter. He was going to read them all on their intended dates, and then he was going to set them down on the table. He was going to walk over the desk where his laptop sat, and take out his gun.

And as he lifted it to his head and pulled the trigger, he would finally -

"Sorry about th -" the door swung open to reveal Molly, pulling a cardigan up over her shoulders. Her hair was tied up in a messy ponytail, and she didn't have any make-up on. John thought absentmindedly that he must have woken her up, and was about to apologize. "John? Is . . . is everything alright? Do you need something? I can -"

"No, Molly, I'm . . . I'm fine." John replied, interrupting her as nicely as possible. Molly smiled awkwardly, and began wringing her hands nervously. For a moment, John almost wished that Sherlock was here. He always knew what to say, even if it was a little offensive at times. "I was just wondering if . . . could we talk? There's something that I need to -"

"Of course!" Molly said, a little over-enthusiastically. John could tell that she was feeling quite skittish, and cursed himself for not calling her beforehand. She wasn't really the type of person that handled social interactions very well. Then again, neither was he. At least, not since . . . he left. God, even now John couldn't even bring himself to _think _the word. "Would you like to come in, or . . . we could go for coffee?"

"I'd rather just come in, thanks. It . . . shouldn't take long."

"Alright then," she replied, stepping to the side to let him in. He paused a moment, wiping his feet on the doormat, before entering her small hallway. He stood for a moment, allowing her to pass him and lead the way to the kitchen.

He had to admit, her house was rather nice. Definitely a lot cleaner than his crumbling excuse for a flat. The walls were painted a pale, calming blue, and framed pictures of smiling, and grinning faces stared back at him. Looking at the photos, John wished he could be like the people in them. Young, careless . . . happy. As he continued to walk, a particular picture caught his eye.

It didn't look too old, but it must have been taken over a year ago. It was in the lab at St Barts, where Sherlock and John had been first introduced. Sherlock was stood to the left of the photo, with John in the middle and Molly on the right. John remembered when that photo had been taken, though he couldn't for the life of him remember who had taken it.

A few months ago, they'd been investigating a case, and Sherlock was testing several, extremely dangerous chemicals. A bomb had gone off in an office building somewhere, and the remains of it had been found by the police. Apparently, if Sherlock could find what chemicals had been used in the bomb, then it would help to identify the killer.

At the time, John had thought it was all bollocks. But he'd agreed to help anyway.

So Sherlock had dragged him along to St Barts, and called Molly in at some unspeakable hour of the morning. They were all running around the lab blowing things up and mixing chemicals, and they were all tired to the point where they were actually becoming a little bit hyper. Just before the photo was taken, John had been testing a particularly flammable chemical. Anyway, he'd forgotten to wear any safety glasses, and a giant flame had exploded in his face.

The moment it happened, Sherlock and Molly raced over to check that he was alright. They moved John away from the flame, and when they saw that he was fine they began to burst into fits of giggles. John demanded to know what they were laughing at, and Molly quickly ran to get a mirror. When she returned, and John held the mirror up, he couldn't help but laugh himself.

The flame had singed his eye brows off.

Molly had insisted that they capture the moment, and had gotten a picture of the three of them on her phone. John had to admit, looking at it now, it was a good picture. There were small tears of laughter in Molly's eyes, and her mouth was spread into a massive grin. John himself wasn't looking particularly pleased, but there was a small smile playing on his lips. But Sherlock . . . Sherlock was clutching his stomach with laughter. John didn't think he'd ever seen the man laugh so hard. There were tears streaming down his cheeks, and his mouth was open in a laugh that John could still hear echoing in his mind.

He couldn't stop the smile that formed on his lips as he looked at the picture. He hadn't thought about that day in a while, and as Molly came back to see why he hadn't followed, she smiled fondly. They had become closer that day, the three of them. John remembered laughing with them, and feeling a sense of belonging for the first time in a long time. And as he'd looked at Molly and Sherlock, he'd just _known _that they felt the same.

"That's my favourite picture," Molly said, leaning on the wall. "I remember the day it was taken, when Sherlock called me in at two in the morning. I remember being angry when I first got there, that he thought he could just push me around like that. But then this happened, and I just couldn't help but laugh. And suddenly I didn't mind at all."

John nodded, not taking his eyes off the picture.

"I look at this picture sometimes, and I wonder . . . what went wrong, you know? He just always seemed so calm, like nothing was ever wrong. Things just seemed to . . . roll off him. He took it all in his stride, never let it get to him. I always wished that I could have been more like that. And then all of a sudden . . . he was gone, and it was like he was never even there at all. All I had was this picture. Just . . . a picture."

John said nothing, but he could feel his throat getting tighter.

"Sorry, I . . . sorry. I shouldn't be talking about this, it's not right -"

"No, it's . . . nice," John said, finally tearing his eyes away from the picture and looking at her. There were no tears in her eyes, just a pure, unmoving sadness. She seemed to be a lot more accepting of the situation than he was. But John had never liked change, and now he didn't have a choice. "It's nice to be able to talk about him like he was an actual person. Most people just try and act as though he never even existed."

"I can get you a copy of the picture, if you want?" Molly asked, suddenly sounding more confident.

"That would be . . . that would be great." John replied, as Molly turned and walked into the kitchen. Taking one last look at the photo, he followed her. "Thank you, by the way."

"For what?" she asked, walking over to the cupboard. Reaching inside, she pulled out two mugs and set them down on the counter. She lifted one in John's direction, but he shook his head. He wasn't really in the mood for a cup of tea right now, and he couldn't exactly ask her if she had any whiskey. He hadn't been out in weeks, but he still knew that ten o'clock was not an appropriate time for alcohol by anybody's standards. And he didn't want Molly to worry.

"I'm not really sure, just . . . thank you."

"Well, you're welcome." Molly smiled, sitting down at the table. She'd abandoned her tea, but John didn't say anything. He pulled out the chair across from her, and sat down cautiously. This was probably the longest time he'd spent in Molly's company without Sherlock around. And he was finding that she actually was a very nice girl. If they'd met under any other circumstances, he probably would have asked her out. "So what was it that you wanted to talk to me about?"

"I . . . uh," John began, not really sure what to say. He _really _didn't want to bring Sherlock up again, but to be honest, he didn't have much of a choice. It was too late to back out now, and the sooner he got it over with, the sooner he could get back. To Sherlock - _Sherlock's letters, _John corrected himself. "I . . . I read Sherlock's letter, last month. He, um . . . he talked about you . . ."

"H - what?" Molly asked, her eyes widening in surprise. "He talked about . . . me? What did he say?"

John took a long, deep breath. He almost didn't want to say the words out loud. It felt wrong. Sherlock should be the one telling her these things, not him. But as he looked across the table, and saw the pleading look in Molly's eyes, he knew that she had to know. She had to know how much she'd meant to him. Because she was never going to find out otherwise.

"He said that, um . . ." he bit his lip, taking another breath. "He said that he never really noticed you, and that he knew you had feelings for him. He said that he never mentioned it, because it wasn't . . . important. But he said that he used you, and he knew that he shouldn't have. He knew that it was wrong. And he said that you were right, about him. That he wasn't okay. He didn't really seem to want to elaborate much on that, but he did say one last thing . . . about you."

"What was it?" Molly said, her voice now a hoarse whisper. Tears were filling her eyes, but they didn't fall. Her breaths were coming in short gasps, and John had a feeling this was about more than just Sherlock mentioning her in a letter. But he wasn't going to mention it, not now. This conversation was hard enough as it was, no need to make it any worse.

"He said that . . . that you always felt like you were worthless. And that it was probably his fault that you felt that way. But . . . you weren't worthless. He said that . . . he said that he thought you were brilliant."

Molly's hand flew up to cover her mouth, but that didn't stop the sob from escaping. Tears were now spilling down her cheeks, and she was breathing rapidly. John didn't know what to do. He wanted to comfort her, he did. But it was as if something was stopping him. There was a small, aching feeling in his chest that he couldn't seem to get rid of. So he just sat there instead.

"He . . . he really wrote that?" she asked, a small watery smile forming on her lips.

John simply nodded, not really wanting to say anything else. Before he knew what was happening, Molly was out of her chair, and her arms were around his neck. He awkwardly patted her back, and put his arms around her waste. Absentmindedly, he noted that her hair smelled like strawberries. He wondered if Sherlock had ever noticed that. Most likely.

When she pulled away, John's face felt wet. He wiped a hand across his face. He'd been crying without even realizing it. And, from the looks of things, Molly had too. She used her sleeve to wipe her tears away, and stood up. John decided to do the same, not wanting to impose.

"I'm sorry, I just . . . this must be hard for you," Molly mumbled, and John shook his head.

"I . . . I should go. All this talk about . . . Sherlock, it's really . . . it's a bit too much all in one day, you know?" he whispered, sniffing loudly. Molly nodded, taking her hair out of its ponytail and running her hand through it. She pushed his chair back under the table, and followed him to the front door. John tried desperately not to look at the picture on the way out, but to no success. He glanced at it quickly on his way to the door, a sharp pain in his chest.

"Thank you for coming, John."

"It's no problem, I just . . . I thought you should know." John replied, as Molly opened the door. He passed her at the door, but then turned back one last time. Standing in the door frame, looking across at her, her saw something glint in the sunlight. He looked down at her hands, which she was wringing again nervously. "You're engaged."

Molly looked down at her hand, and nodded. "Yes, I . . . I guess I am."

"That's . . . nice. Congratulations." he said, blinking several times. He tried to be happy for her, but all he could feel was sadness. Looking at Molly, hopeful, happy . . . she was moving on. She was going to be fine. Sure, for a time, she'd had a bit of a crush on Sherlock. But that was gone now. She was moving on with her life. Something that he could never do.

"Thank you."

Nodding to himself, John made his way out the door. As he walked down the path back to the street, he felt the gut-wrenching sorrow consume him once more. He'd hidden from it for the last half an hour quite well, but now it was only coming back stronger. He could hide it from everyone else until he got home, but it was what would happen when he returned that scared him. He wasn't sure he was ready for another one of Sherlock's letters.

Watching him from the door, Molly sighed. She backed away from the door, closing it behind her, and reached for the phone. She dialled that oh-so-familiar number, and held the phone to her ear, waiting. He picked up on the fourth ring, like he always did.

"Molly?"

"Sherlock, we have to talk."

* * *

_John,_

_I can only apologize from this point onwards. It's getting harder and harder to keep it together writing these letters, and I can imagine that it's only going to get worse as I carry on. I don't want to give up writing the letters, because I honestly do believe that this will help you. But I can't promise that they're going to be entirely happy. I'm sorry. I just can't keep pretending that I'm alright._

_I don't think I ever really explained why I was writing these, did I? I suppose it sounds a bit silly now, but . . . I just didn't want you to feel like you were alone. _

_Even though I never talked about it . . . I know how difficult death can be. I'm going to try and be as brief as possible, but . . . in high school, I was bullied. Every day, they would drag me behind a wall and beat me until I was sick. Every day. Back then, I thought that nobody noticed. Most of the bruises were in places that nobody could see. But one day, - maybe they just weren't careful enough, I don't know - this boy turned up. I'd never even seen him before. _

_He took one of the boys by the collar, and threw him off me. He threatened them, and they listened. After they went off, tails between their legs, I thought that this boy would just leave. I thought it was just a random act of kindness, nothing more. But he helped me up, and shook my hand. His name was Colin. He walked me to the Headmaster's office, and made me tell him what was going on._

_After that, Colin and I became best friends. We spent most of our days in the library, or at Colin's house. I never really liked bringing him to my house, as I was too embarrassed. I knew that my family weren't like other people's, and I was scared that if Colin met them he'd think that I was too much of a freak. But he didn't seem to mind, so it didn't matter._

_We'd been friends for about a year, when Colin got a girlfriend. I was nervous at first, because I didn't think I was going to like having another person go everywhere with us. Then he brought her to the library one day to meet me for the first time. And she was nice, and smart. Her name was Sophie. But no matter how much time I spent with her, I couldn't help but feel that something was wrong. _

_She always stood a little too close to Colin, and there was something in the way she spoke to him that just . . . I tried to ask him about it, but he just shrugged it off as me being paranoid. He thought that I just wanted him all to myself. Back then, my deduction skills weren't as . . . clean cut as they are now. I just had a bad feeling about her, but I had no idea why._

_They had been dating for about a month before I started noticing that something was wrong with Colin. He seemed . . . distant. I tried to ask him about it several times, but he kept insisting that everything was fine. I couldn't let it go, though. I _knew _that something was wrong. He got tired of it after a while, and we got into a fight. We didn't talk for weeks._

_Then one night, my Mother came into my room. She said that there was someone on the phone that wanted to talk to me. I took the phone from her, and I could tell that she was nervous. I'd never seen her look like that before. The person on the other side of the phone was from the hospital. _

_Colin shot himself._

_It turned out that Sophie had been abusing him. Not just physically, but mentally as well. Nobody knew how long for, and I still don't know now. He wrote a suicide note, telling me that I was right, and that he was sorry. I'm not going to bore you with the details, and I don't really feel like writing about this for much longer, really. But I just remember feeling so lost. _

_He was the only friend that I had, and then he was gone. Just like that. And I just remembered thinking how strange it was. You can be talking to someone one minute, and then they're just gone. And you can't ever see them again. It didn't make any sense to me at the time, and I'd never felt more alone. I blamed myself, for a while. For not noticing. I'd always prided myself on my deduction skills, but the one time they would have actually been useful . . . _

_I spent years perfecting my deductions after that. I didn't want something like that to happen again. I didn't want anyone else to get hurt in that way._

_I felt so guilty. He'd saved me from those bullies, without even a second thought. He didn't even know who I was. But somehow, he'd noticed that something was wrong. And I always wondered how he'd done that. How he'd just been able to look at me, a complete stranger, and just _know. _How he'd been able to save me, and I hadn't been able to do the same for him._

_So . . . I know how it feels. And I'm sorry for putting you through this._

_God, this is hard. Seven letters in, and I'm already a wreck. I guess this is just all of my "repressed emotions" coming back to haunt me. I'm trying, but . . . I'm really not handling this too well. You were always so much better with these sorts of things. You took it all in your stride, but took your time to deal with things. I wish I could be more like that. You always were the stronger of the two of us._

_I shouldn't have talked about Colin, it wasn't fair to you. You didn't need to know that. But I just felt like if I told you, then . . . maybe you'd know that you can get through this. It took a while for me to get over what happened with Tom. And I still think about it even now . . . but it _is _possible. You'll be okay, John._

_I promise._

_- SH_

Gripping the letter in a shaking hand, John sighed. Of all of the letters that he'd read so far, this had probably been the hardest. Sherlock had never, _ever _opened up to him like that. At least not while he was . . . alive. He'd never talked about his childhood, at all. But then again, John had never really asked him. He'd always just assumed that it was something that they weren't going to talk about.

And the worst part was, that he couldn't help but feel a little bit annoyed. Sherlock had lost his friend in high school, his _best _friend. And that had clearly affected him more than anything that had ever happened to him before. He'd _known _what it felt like to lose someone. And yet, he'd done . . . _exactly _the same thing to John. _Knowing _how much of a wreck it would leave him in.

John just hoped to God that he'd had a good enough reason.

Putting the letter down, he wiped his tired eyes. He hadn't even gone a full week without crying since Sherlock . . . left. And it only got worse whenever he read a letter. It just reminded him of everything he could've had, if he'd just been a few seconds faster. Just a few seconds, and he could have saved him. That was something that John didn't think he was ever likely to forget.

But there were some times, in the morning, when he did. Just for a moment, he forgot that Sherlock was gone. And for those few moments, he was happy again. He opened his eyes, expecting to see his old room in 221b. Expecting to walk downstairs, and hear Sherlock performing some stupid experiment, or composing a song on his violin.

Then he opened his eyes. And he remembered.

Those moments were probably the worst. When it all came rushing back to him, all at once. He could still remember the exact words that Sherlock had said to him. And every morning, he had to relive it all over again. Those were the moments when he couldn't stop himself. When it all just became too much, and he allowed himself to release the wracking sobs from his aching body.

With dry eyes, John stood up from the desk. He knew he was going to have to go back to 221b eventually. He wasn't an idiot. He knew that Mrs Hudson wouldn't be able to keep it closed up forever. Eventually she was going to need the money, and she'd have to sell it to somebody else. And he could _never _allow that to happen. 221b was _their _place. Even the idea of anybody else living there was . . . unthinkable.

Walking over the kitchen, he resolved to call Mrs Hudson about it. But not now, not today. Not when he was feeling like such a wreck. No, now he was going to drown his sorrows in a bottle of whiskey. Dull the pain the only way he knew how.

_You always were the stronger of the two of us._

Sherlock's words echoed in his mind, and John gripped the counter to steady himself. He gripped it so hard that his knuckles turned white, and closed his eyes tightly. He could already feel the anger and the misery churning inside him, and knew the only way to get rid of it was to reach for the bottle. But . . . Sherlock. Sherlock wanted him to be strong.

If he could see John now . . . he would have been _ashamed. _Sherlock had always thought he was so strong. But he wasn't. He really, really wasn't. Everyone kept telling him that eventually, it would get better. He'd find a way to cope. He guessed at this point they just assumed that he was. Coping, that is. But he wasn't coping. He didn't even know if there were such a thing in this situation.

He didn't want to disappoint Sherlock. He didn't. But he didn't know what else to do. He couldn't go on living like this, but he couldn't give up. Giving up would only disappoint Sherlock more. So if he wasn't going to do that, then he had to find _something _to keep him going. He knew it wasn't the answer. And that eventually, he _was _going to have to find some way to deal with Sherlock's death. But now wasn't the time.

So he would go on as he had before. Not living, but surviving.


End file.
